Xander
Fairchild can’t stand people in general and frat boys in
particular, so when he’s forced to spend his summer working on
his senior project with Skylar Stone, a silver-tongued Delta Sig with
a trust fund who wants to make Xander over into a shiny new image,
Xander is determined to resist. He came to idyllic, Japanese
culture-soaked Benten College to hide and make manga, not to be
transformed into a corporate clone in the eleventh hour.

Skylar’s life has
been laid out for him since before he was born, but all it takes is
one look at Xander’s artwork, and the veneer around him begins
to crack. Xander himself does plenty of damage too. There’s
something about the antisocial artist’s refusal to yield that
forces Skylar to acknowledge how much his own orchestrated future is
killing him slowly…as is the truth about his gray-spectrum
sexuality, which he hasn’t dared to speak aloud, even to
himself.

Through a summer of art
and friendship, Xander and Skylar learn more about each other,
themselves, and their feelings for one another. But as their senior
year begins, they must decide if they will part ways and return to
the dull futures they had planned, or if they will take a risk and
leap into a brightly colored future—together.

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copyright of this work.

This
book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and
incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been
used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or
organizations is entirely coincidental.

All
Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced
in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Acknowledgments

This
book took me several years to complete and wouldn’t be possible
without the help of many, many people carrying me.

Thank you, Anna
Cullinan, for your in-house artist advice and for putting up with all
of Mom’s asinine questions. Thank you, Dan Cullinan, for being
an unparalleled assistant and guy Friday, man-about-house, and above
all, my perfect husband and partner. Thank you, Damon Suede, for beta
reading, for letting me call you when you’re spent and busy,
for being a font of knowledge, and of course, thank you for all the
blood. Thank you, Sara, for reading, for advising, for listening, for
cheering me on, and for being a cherished and wonderful friend. You
aren’t a starfish, but I think you might, in fact, be a
demigod, because you have talents and powers that forever leave me in
awe. Thank you, Christa and Sasha, my two amazing editors who helped
me make this book better, and Lillie, my beloved proofer who made
sure all one hundred twenty thousand words were in order. Thanks to
Paul for making the book look great inside, and Nathalie and Natsuko
for the breathtaking outside. Thanks to September Scanlations
translation help so we could get to that gorgeous cover. Thank you,
Iggy Toma, for giving the seven gods (and Fudō Myōō)
their voices. And thank you to Tenjin-sama for accepting my offerings
these months and listening to my prayers as I found my way through
this book.

Most importantly, thank
you to my patrons. Without you this book would not be possible. Thank
you for the financial support, the emotional support, the community,
the spiritual center you provide to me and to everyone in our hub.
You are my gods, the precious gift I cannot believe I deserve
and yet there you are, every day. Thank you from the bottom of my
heart and soul. It is a joy to create books for you, with you. Thank
you, all of you, especially Pamela Bartual, Rosie M., Marie, Sarah
Plunkett, Tiffany Miller, Erin Sharpe, Chris Klaene, Sandy C., Sarah
M., Deandre Ellerbe, Deanna Ferguson, Michele C., Kaija Kovanen,
Jennifer Harvey, Katie M Pizzolato, Ninna, Karin Wollina, and Maija.

Now let’s go make
more art.

Chapter One

THE
PAINTING, THREE by four feet and propped on an easel in the
center of the room, arrested Skylar Stone, emptying every thought
from his head, save one. This piece of art was the most incredible
thing he’d ever seen.

He paced a semicircle
around the canvas, unconsciously hooking his index finger into his
collar to loosen his tie, as if looking at this painting required
more room to breathe. It assaulted his senses and made him too dizzy
to think. How did it possess so many colors and yet seem kind of
purply blue? There was gold in there, somehow, and red, and…God,
everything. What was the figure in the foreground? A man? A
dog? A boulder? Somehow it was all three. A hulking mass of darkness
looking out at…stars. Or perhaps it was someone lying on a
blanket. Or it was a gargoyle looking over a city. A city on fire.

Or maybe it was a city
being formed?

It looked like a child
had painted it. Or a grand master. It took Skylar’s breath
away.

“I said,
can I help you?”

Blinking, Skylar turned
toward the speaker, a mousy, scrawny, hunched male student with a
permanent glower stitched on his face. He wore a dark-blue apron
stained with paint, several brushes sticking out of the right-side
pocket. The plaid shirt the apron protected was frayed at the collar
and cuffs, and it fit the man so poorly it looked like he’d
dressed in his father’s closet. His jeans were equally worn,
and his tennis shoes sported soles flopping open at the toes.

The man glared at
Skylar with dark-brown eyes peering from a shag of slightly curly,
too-long bangs as he waited for Skylar’s reply.

Skylar cleared his
throat and struggled to find his usual confidence, feeling clearer
with the artwork out of a direct line of sight. “Sorry. That
painting is so gorgeous it knocked me off my game a little.”
Digging his smile out of his stupor, he crawled back into what his
fraternity brothers called Silver Stone Mode and stuck out his hand.
“Skylar Stone. I’m the risk manager for Delta Eta Sigma.
I’m looking for Mr. Xander Fairchild. Can you tell me where I
might find him?”

The mousy guy didn’t
accept the handshake, and if anything, his scowl deepened. “What
do you mean, the painting is gorgeous?”

Skylar turned back to
it, rubbing the smooth line of his chin with his thumb and
forefinger. “I mean that the painting is gorgeous. I feel like
I could look at it for hours.”

“The paint is too
thick, and the brushstrokes are a mess.”

“That’s
kind of what I like, though. The thickness. The roughness. It feels
almost 3-D. I don’t know anything about art, so I wouldn’t
know a brushstroke if you hit me with it, but I love this painting.
Do you know who did it?”

Scowling Guy snorted.
“Me.”

“Wow. Really?
That’s fantastic. I can see someday I’ll be forking over
an arm and a leg for the right to hang your work in my living room.”

The artist hunched his
shoulders and glared harder. “What do you want?”

Right, no more
compliments. Skylar got down to business. “Like I said, I’m
here to see Mr. Fairchild. Do you know where I can find him?”

“You already did.
Now tell me what you want, so I can tell you no and get back to
work.”

“You mean—you’re
Xander Fairchild?”

“Yes. And you’re
one of the frat boys who spray-painted penises all over my mural.”

Here, finally, Skylar
found his groove. “No. I’m one of the officers of the
fraternity where three members are on probation for vandalizing your
work. I’m here to apologize on behalf of Delta Eta Sigma and
see what we can do to make amends for our brothers’
inappropriate behavior.”

“There’s
not much you can do. It can’t be replaced. I’d have to
repaint the whole thing, and it’ll never be the same as the
first time. It’ll always be a copy, which means it’s
going to suck. I told the dean to take it down and forget it. I’ll
do another mural somewhere with less chance of roving drunken
monkeys. Or I won’t do it at all. I have my portfolio and BFA
project to think about.”

That news disillusioned
Skylar on multiple levels. He’d assumed he could sentence the
freshmen to eons of community service beginning with cleaning,
but hearing the mural was ruined meant things were more serious than
he’d been led to believe. Also, he’d liked that
artwork. It was on the wall of Gama Auditorium, which meant he passed
it every time he walked into school, and he walked almost every day.
It made sense, he supposed, that he’d liked the mural so well,
since it was by the same artist as the painting in front of him. He
liked the painting so much better, though. The mural had been
stylized, designed to represent Benten College more than being art.
It depressed Sky to think it would be removed, not repaired.

He realized he was
woolgathering, not focusing on his mission, and he cleared his
throat. “I’m sorry to hear the mural is ruined. That will
change our punishment of the offenders, though I can’t imagine
that’s much recompense for having your work destroyed. At the
very least, I’d like to apologize on behalf of Delta Eta Sigma.
As someone who enjoyed your mural, I will miss seeing it every day.”

Xander turned away and
wrestled the lid off a paint can. “Whatever.”

Normally Skylar would
enjoy the challenge of someone so difficult to smooth over, but he
wasn’t on his game today. “Are you sure the mural can’t
be saved? Because believe me, these two have days of community
service ahead of them. If that can’t be done, maybe there’s
some particularly grueling work they can do here in the studios?”

“You think I want
them in here? Anyway, why are you asking me? I did the mural as a
sophomore special project. I don’t have any authority over what
happens to it. That said, if you try to stick me in a room full of
frat boys grousing about their punishment—”

Skylar held up a hand.
“Hey—first of all, I’m asking you because you’re
the artist. Yes, we’re in discussion with the head of the art
department, and the Interfraternity Council, as well as campus
security, but your thoughts on this situation are also important.
Second of all, no one will be sticking you with anything. These two
are facing all manner of charges and suspensions, and at this point
they’re doing nothing but groveling. We take this seriously.
That’s why I’m here, asking how Delta Eta Sigma can make
it up to you.”

Xander had the lid off
the paint can and waved it angrily at Skylar. “Nothing. Thanks
for the effort. Talk to the building secretary about donating money
for paint or something, but don’t let your goons clean any of
my brushes. Meanwhile, I need to get back to work.” After
dunking a fat, wide brush in the can, he wiped it on the rim and
aimed it at the canvas.

Skylar frowned at him.
“What are you doing?” When he realized the brush was
about to slide across the top of that night sky, he didn’t
think, only knocked it out of Xander’s hand, sending it
clattering to the floor.

“Christ!”
Xander faced down Skylar with his fists clenched. “What the
hell is your problem?”

Skylar felt queasy and
slightly shaky. “You were going to paint over it.”

“Yes. It’s
a piece of shit, and I need the canvas.”

Piece of shit?
“It’s stunning. If you don’t like it, sell it and
buy a new canvas.”

Xander’s nostrils
flared. “Like I said, you can leave now.”

Skylar should have.
He’d done what he’d come to do—he hadn’t
succeeded, but if he wanted to achieve his goal, he’d need to
leave, regroup, and try again another day. But he couldn’t
leave and let the painting be ruined, so instead of walking out the
door, he reached for his wallet. “How much do you want for it?”

This only enraged
Xander further. “I said, get out.”

Skylar thumbed through
his bills. “I only have forty-five on me, but I’ll go to
the nearest ATM and get the rest of whatever price you name. I want
to buy the painting, Mr. Fairchild.”

“I’m not
letting you take this back to your stupid frat house so you and your
brothers can use it for a dartboard.”

Skylar lowered his
wallet and swallowed the impulse to give in to temper. “I have
no such intent. I would never use a piece of art so callously. I
gather you don’t have a high opinion of Greek life, which I’m
sorry to hear.” Gears turned, and Silver Stone Mode ground back
to life. “You don’t seem to have much regard for your own
skill, either, if you’re so unwilling to sell your work. As far
as I’m concerned, you belong in a gallery.”

Xander blinked at
Skylar. For a moment he looked vulnerable, almost eager, his veneer
cracking at last. Just as quickly, however, his owlish demeanor was
back. He set his jaw as he picked the brush up from the floor. “This
is my painting. I can destroy it if I want to. I can paint
over it, use it as a coffee table, chuck it against the wall. It’s
not going to hang in a gallery. The closest thing to that I’ll
be seeing anytime soon is my senior art show, and there’s no
way in hell I’m letting that get laughed down.”

“What’s to
laugh at? I love the painting. The idea of a room full of your work
sounds perfect.”

“Oh yeah? Tell me
why you like my work, then.”

Skylar turned to the
painting. The power of it hit him every time he looked at it, and he
felt self-conscious attempting to articulate why when Xander was so
derisive. He considered giving up and leaving. He’d delivered
the apology and started trying to engender goodwill. The rest of his
work would be done with research and carefully orchestrated gestures.
But he really did hate the idea of this painting being covered up.

“I don’t
know. It gets me, right in the gut. It’s so many things at
once. It makes me feel aching and lonely but not desolate. This guy
who has lost everything and retreated from the world, maybe even
hates it, still has hope he can find his niche.” He sighed and
gestured with his hand. “I don’t know anything about
brushstrokes or forms or whatever. All I know is I’d hand over
a lot of money to take this home with me. I wouldn’t use it as
a dartboard. I’d hang it in my room, and I’d stare at it
while I lie in bed.” He rolled his eyes at himself. “Now
you’ll tell me how off my interpretation was. But it’s
why I love it.”

Xander looked pale,
almost trembling, like someone had slapped him in the face. He stared
at Skylar with that same vulnerable, aching expression. Then he
turned away. “Take it.”

Skylar frowned. “Take
what?”

Xander made shooing
motions at him. “The painting. Take it. Take it and go.”

The painting? Skylar
pulled out his money again. “Here, let me pay—”

“Just take
it.” Xander put down the paintbrush, hauled the painting
off the easel, and thrust it at Skylar. “It’s yours. Go
away.”

Skylar struggled to
accept the painting without dropping his wallet. “I really
would pay for it. I want to pay for it.” He needed
to.

“We don’t
always get what we want. You have the painting, and you’ve
apologized for the frat. I accept. There, see? Everyone’s
happy. Go have a kegger or something.”

Xander didn’t
look happy. He looked upset. Skylar was too. It bothered him to pay
nothing for the painting. He didn’t like that Xander was so
dismissive of Delta Sig, as if they were some reboot of Animal
House. Though he supposed with the mural incident they looked
like it, dammit. Skylar wanted to tell Xander about the two friends
who had founded Delta Eta Sigma while caring for the sick, about
Delta Sig’s connection to the Boys & Girls Clubs of America
and how much service they did a year. He wanted to talk about how his
housemates truly were his brothers, how the social network the Greek
life provided was as fundamental if not more so than his own family
upbringing.

He would have, but
Xander took off his apron and disappeared out of the studio and down
a hallway. The door closed behind him with a quiet snick.

Skylar stared at the
place where he’d disappeared, letting the quiet ring in his
ears. Pulling his business card out of his wallet, he spied a
backpack at the foot of the easel and slipped the card into an open
flap. Then he tucked his wallet into his pocket, the painting
carefully under his arm, and wove his way out of the building and
down the hill toward Delta Sig.

THE
LAST GODDAMNED thing Xander Fairchild needed was a frat boy
interrupting his studio time.

His day had been packed
tight as it was, and Pretty Boy’s interruption had basically
shot everything all to hell. Xander’s plan had been to paint
over the shit painting, letting it dry while he finished the last
panels due for Lucky 7. The chore of recycling the canvas so
he could paint tomorrow should have taken him a quick ten minutes,
and inking only another forty, leaving him time to get the pages
across campus to the magazine offices in Tori Hall on his way home.
Instead, he had to stretch a new canvas over a frame, and he was
priming it and grumbling under his breath when Sara came looking for
him.

“I’m so
sorry.” He put down the brush and wiped his hands on his apron.
“I haven’t even started. Something came up, and I’m
completely behind.”

She waved a hand at
him, indicating he should stay where he was. “You have the
panels drawn, right? I can do the inking, if you don’t mind.”

Xander did mind, in
fact, but he didn’t want to sound like a controlling ass. “I
have to tweak a few things. Sorry.” He washed his hands briskly
in the sink. “It won’t take me long. I swear.”

“No worries.
Oh—and Jacob wanted me to tell you, he’s not sure when,
but he wants to get the guys together to move the last of the boxes
to storage until they give us our new space assignment for the fall.
He says make sure you either answer your phone, check your messages,
or read your email this time.”

Xander’s cheeks
burned, but he nodded, keeping his gaze on his hands as he washed
them. “Got it.”

She hiked herself onto
a stool at the table where Xander had his manga materials spread out,
her actions indicating she intended to watch him finish. He
suppressed a sigh, knowing damn well he couldn’t ask her to
leave on several counts. One, he was the one late with his work.
Two—he glanced over his shoulder at Sara’s leg braces. He
was an asshole, but he wasn’t that much of an asshole,
to send her away after coming all the way over from the Lucky 7
offices. If it had been Cory, Jacob, or Zelda, he might have.

Which, he suspected,
was possibly why they’d sent her. Damn it all.

He dried his hands and
took up a stool across from her, opening his folio and his ink
supplies. “I’m sorry you had to come all this way to find
me.”

She shrugged. “I
texted you as a formality, but then I started walking.”

Pausing with his Zebra
G nib in hand, Xander winced. He hadn’t even brought his cell
phone today. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all
right. Nice day out.” She rested her chin against her wrist,
which was also in a brace. “Do you have a lot of screentone to
add?”

“A bit, but it
doesn’t take me long.” Less time if he wasn’t
watched, but there wasn’t much helping that now.

Damn that frat boy
anyway. Xander would already be on his way home, if not for him.

Xander tried to focus
on inking the characters in front of him, but all he could see was
the way what’s-his-name had stared at his shitty painting.

And called it gorgeous.

“Seriously, I can
help, if you want.”

Xander snapped out of
his stupor and glowered at the paper, hunching deeper over it. “No.
I’m fine. Thanks.”

He worked diligently
after that, giving life to the manga. Lucky 7 had existed as a
student magazine since the college was founded in 1899, and The
Adventures of Hotay & Moo had been a serialized story since
day one, but the format had morphed along with the magazine. The name
Lucky 7 was of course a riff on the Japanese seven gods of
fortune, though The Adventures of Hotay & Moo were almost
entirely based on one of the seven gods, Hotei, and Fudō Myōō,
who was a god and one of the five wisdom kings but not one of the
gods of fortune.

In the 1940s the short
stories had become comics, and in the 1990s a resurgence in the
college’s Japanese cultural roots had inspired the editorial
board to turn the comic into a manga, going so far as to flip the
printing order so that the magazine opened to what westerners would
consider the back.

Xander was the manga
artist for the magazine and had been since his sophomore year, having
apprenticed to the senior mangaka his freshman year and been a
coartist that first year. Sara had been, theoretically, his
apprentice this year, but he had been a shitty mentor. Which he felt
bad about, but not bad enough to change his ways.

The characters were a
true pleasure to work with, and drawing them had taught Xander more
than his actual coursework. They’d done nothing but thrive in
the hands of devoted artists over the decades. Xander understood the
honor given to him, to have the torch of creating them passed to him,
and he did his best to take it seriously.

It helped that at this
point the two leads basically wrote themselves. Hotay was jolly and
eternally optimistic, always leading the duo into the sun—in
one story arc, this was literal—and Moo was sour and
pessimistic, skeptical of everyone and everything they encountered,
ready to do battle. Hotay could get himself out of a scrape if need
be, but if a flaming sword were needed, that was when Moo came into
play. There had definitely been artists who favored more
battle-themed arcs, but under Xander’s charge, the storylines
tended toward Hotay and Moo having adventures together, encountering
problems, and above all arguing.

Well, Moo argued, and
Hotay cheered him up and coaxed him into drinking sake and forgetting
his problems. Sometimes The Adventures of Hotay & Moo was
guilty of not having enough plot in its storylines. Which was
probably why the readership was dying off.

When Xander finished
adding the screentones and everything had set, he handed Sara the
folio. “Sorry again that you had to come get it.”

“No worries. But
maybe this summer, since we’re both staying in town, I can
teach you how to use the digital drawing software, and all of this
can go faster.”

That, right there, was
why Xander had been a shitty mentor. “I have to get home. See
you later.”

He left before she
could start yet another campaign to convince him to convert the
manga.

The walk between the
art building and Xander’s apartment was just over a mile and a
half, and with shortcuts and a pass through the local hospital’s
campus, Xander had the trek between home and studio down to
twenty-eight minutes. The day Pretty Boy confiscated his painting,
however, the walk took Xander almost an hour.

This was because he
went the long way, winding his way through the state park so he could
lose himself in the trees and spend some time staring out across the
bluff at the top of the ridge. He could have shaved off ten minutes
if he’d used the regular path, but he didn’t want to run
into people walking their dogs, so he took the hiking paths instead.
He stood at the bluff for a good twenty minutes, replaying the
exchange in the studio over and over again before stalking the rest
of the way home, determined to not think anymore.

He worried he’d
run into his landlady, but she wasn’t home, thankfully. It was
common for her to hear him arrive and come out to greet him, roping
him into unwanted conversation, but today the gods looked fondly on
him and allowed him to stop at his mailbox in peace before hiking up
the side stairs to his attic apartment. After letting himself inside
and tossing the mail on the kitchen counter, he shut the blinds tight
and collapsed in a flop on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

A soft thunk on
his legs preceded a plaintive meow and a second, heavier thud against
his chest. Xander lifted his head to see both his cats peering
intently at him.

Hokusai, the
leg-thumper, mewed again, but Hiromu focused on purring like a jet
engine and rubbing her head along Xander’s jaw. Xander
continued to pet them as he addressed the ceiling.

“It was a fluke
that he saw exactly what I’d meant to paint. Probably he has
some ninja people-reading skill and figured it out from my face.”
When Hiromu head-butted his chin, Xander sighed and dipped his head
to nuzzle back. “I shouldn’t have given it to him. Better
to have it painted over than have it go with them.”

The cats, comprehending
their human wouldn’t be leaping up to feed them, settled into
their perches on his thighs and chest to wait.

Xander stroked Hiromu
idly, her long, fluffy coat silky beneath his fingers. Despite his
vow in the park, he played the exchange with the frat boy over again,
trying to show himself where it had been a trap, but mostly, to his
shame, the memory of that smile and those twinkling eyes made
Xander’s heart flutter. He’d already forgotten the guy’s
name, but it would be a week before he’d stop fantasizing about
Mr. Fancy-Talk pressing Xander gently into the wall, nuzzling his
nose down Xander’s cheek. If only he’d had a little bit
of beard, he’d have been perfect.

Groaning, Xander pushed
the cats off his body and shuffled to the kitchen, where he drizzled
kibble into their bowls. While they ate, he examined his mail. He had
all his bills on autopay, so most of it was garbage, but there was
one fat full-size envelope tucked inside the local advertising
circulars, and when he saw the icon in the return address, his belly
did an uncomfortable backflip.

Benten College
Department of Art & Art History. When Xander pried the
envelope open, it was exactly what he’d expected it to be: the
paperwork for his Bachelor of Fine Arts Exhibition.

He grimaced as he
flipped through the pages of the application. If only it were as
simple as showing up with a rack of paintings, but no. In addition to
requiring their students submit material matching the standards the
art department felt represented Benten and the department’s
vision for postgraduate work, they insisted their BFA students
understand the full weight of what they’d be expected to do if
they intended to live off their art.

He must package
himself and his work. He must advertise his work. He must put
forth—he glanced at the official wording—significant
good-faith effort to promote his exhibition to the public in the
spring or fall of his senior year. When each student’s show
landed in the calendar was determined by lottery, and lucky Xander
was one of the early birds. The application was due May 20, which was
just around the corner. This was the third notice, reminding him he
still hadn’t filled it out.

The only reason Xander
hadn’t was because of the damn promotion bullshit.

It didn’t come
out and say he’d be judged on attendance, but Xander
knew he would be. And he knew however great he might make his
paintings, in this aspect, he would fail. No one would come to his
show. His advisor, the handful of undergrads filling their exhibition
credits. Possibly his aunt, but he doubted it, since she lived too
far away. No one else in the entire state of New York or anywhere in
the northeastern region of the United States would give a damn.
Xander didn’t have friends. He barely had acquaintances.
The only people he knew at Benten were the art majors and the staff
of the Lucky 7, and they all basically tolerated him.

Well, except for Zelda,
but they more tortured him than anything.

Xander’s lack of
people to drag to his show didn’t upset him half as much as the
lengths he was supposed to take to advertise, whether or not anyone
would come. Social media. The department expected him to
promote his work on no less than three social networks. They had a
handy little bullet list of different types and what each was good
for, which probably most students rolled their eyes at because it was
so obvious—except Xander wouldn’t understand any of them
even with a full-on manual. The hell he was tweeting. He’d
never get a single follower, so what was the point? He refused to
even think the word Facebook. As for the rest, he didn’t know
much about them, and he didn’t want to learn.

Except he had to learn.
Three of them. And make a significant good-faith effort.

Shoving the application
to the back of the table, Xander rose to make a pot of coffee. While
it brewed, he thumbed through his records, rerouting his brain from
anger and fear over the art show and his encounter with the frat boy
and nudging it to make a vinyl selection instead.

He was going to paint.

He didn’t have a
studio in his apartment, but his living space essentially was
his studio. He kept the paint and supplies away from the cats, but
his easel and canvases took up most of his living room. His apartment
had plumbing problems and got too cold in the winter and didn’t
have AC, but it had high ceilings, great natural light, and a more
aesthetically pleasing floor plan than the boxy apartments most
students lived in. And because it was so simply arranged, getting
ready to work was a matter of opening a cupboard, pouring turpentine,
donning an apron, and squirting some color onto a palette. The first
song wasn’t finished before Xander stood at his easel, staring
at the blank space while he mixed paint together. He didn’t
think about what he would paint, he just let the canvas tell him what
was there.

Probably he shouldn’t
have been surprised he painted the frat boy. Smiling, suited, hard
and angular yet beautiful as he beamed knowingly out of the painting.
Hands in his pockets, a casual stance. Above him Xander painted
pretty swirls that almost sparkled. In fact, as that thought occurred
to him, he retreated to the kitchen to pick up some glitter and added
it to the paint. After he flipped the record over, Xander painted a
shadowy shape behind his subject. Crouching. Reaching. Ugly where the
frat boy shone. He added Gamblin Cold Wax Medium to those darker
browns and blues, just a hint to turn the paint flat. He used thicker
paint there, letting it sit in fat, awkward globs.

He’d forgotten
the coffee, but he drank it cold as he switched albums. He rinsed his
brushes and splashed pastels in a halo around the two figures. When
the record turned off, he kept painting as the echo of the music
pulsed inside his head and the paint laced the canvas. After he
finished, he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and sipped it as he
sat in the kitchen and stared at what he’d done.

It wasn’t awful.
He wasn’t sure it was great, though a stupid part of him was
trying to argue this should go into his BFA show. He shut that down,
but after a half hour and quarter cup of coffee which once again had
gone cold, he had to admit it was better than average, especially for
basically fucking around.

But the muses weren’t
done with him. Somehow painting the man wasn’t enough. Still
drunk on creating, Xander stumbled to his desk, turned on his light,
and pulled out his markers. Just a quick sketch, he told
himself. A little something different. Less abstract. Something to
capture that other side. That…that smile…

When he looked up, it
was pitch dark, except for his desk light. He’d drawn more than
one sketch. It was a full panel, with shading. He’d gotten out
his ink and nibs and done the thing up properly. It was some kind of
weird cross between Hotay & Moo and something new and
strange, and it was…a mess. He left it unfinished, frustrated
because it hadn’t satisfied him the way he wanted, but it had
been a heady rush of creation, and now the beast was spent.

Rising, dizzy and
cranky, he glanced at the time and realized he hadn’t eaten for
about twelve hours. After a poke in his fridge turned up nothing, he
put water on and pulled out a packet of ramen. While it cooked, he
fished his art history homework out of his backpack.

A business card fell
out and drifted gently to the floor.

It was cream with gray
stripes, and they were glossed, so when Xander tipped the paper
toward the light, the stripes shimmered. SKYLAR STONE,
the card read in classy, conservative DeSoto font in small caps. An
email and phone number were listed below, and when Xander flipped the
card over the stripes were repeated, but in a small square below a
list of titles. Risk Manager, Delta Eta Sigma. Executive Vice
President of American Marketing Association, Benten College Chapter.
Vice President of Public Relations for Students in Advertising.

Skylar. That was the
guy from the studio. The one who had taken Xander’s painting.
The frat boy. How had his card gotten into Xander’s bag?

Pursing his lips,
Xander tossed it at the mini trash can beside the table, put his
ramen in a bowl, and did his homework. When that was done, he heated
up the last of his coffee in the microwave and poured over the BFA
paperwork again.

Halfway through, he set
aside the coffee and got out a beer.

Skylar Stone’s
business card burned in his head like a mocking brand as Xander took
in the full depth of what he was expected to do in addition to
painting a show’s worth of material. Probably this kind of
marketing crap had been Frat Boy’s freshman first semester.
Probably he could do it in his sleep.

Well, Xander couldn’t
do it sober with a gun to his head. His advisor would be no help. He
could maybe ask Sara. Though she’d want to talk about making
Hotay & Moo digital while they were at it. No thanks.

There was always Zelda,
of course. But asking Zelda to help him with a social media campaign
was like asking a nuclear weapon to help you clear out a brush pile.
Another hard pass. Ditto Jacob and Cory. They’d just complain
because they were overworked as it was, and why couldn’t he
figure his shit out like everyone else?

Well, that was
officially everyone he knew, except for his landlady, who had more
trouble accessing the internet than he did.

Xander washed out the
coffeepot, his mug, beer bottle, and his bowl, and fed the cats their
evening treat of wet food. On his way to the bathroom he passed the
garbage can and saw Skylar Stone’s business card gleaming on
the carpet beside it.

You could ask him.
That could be his payment for the painting.

Hope flared, tangled
with yearning. Across the room the frat boy painting beamed at
Xander, bright and shining Technicolor.

On the desk, the four
panels lay in silent black and white, harking to a past Xander didn’t
let himself forget. Unfinished, reminding him of his shortcomings and
the roadblocks to his future.

Nostrils flaring, jaw
set, Xander picked up the card, ripped it into tiny pieces, and
flushed it down the toilet.

Chapter Two

WHILE
THE REST of his fraternity enjoyed a beautiful May afternoon
in a nearby park, Skylar sat at his desk in his room at Delta Eta
Sigma, staring out the window at the gleaming white brick and glass
of Gama Auditorium, trying to figure out what he should submit for
his senior project.

He wanted it to shine
in a particular way, and he hadn’t sorted out how to
make that happen yet. His senior project was a practicum,
essentially: take what we’ve taught you all these years and
show you know how to apply it. It didn’t have to be
something actually implemented, but it certainly looked better on a
resume if that’s what happened. He needed to find someone—an
individual, an entity, or a business—to let him play guinea pig
with their brand. To showcase and market them.

The choice he made
would define him. Hardcore business? That was what his father would
expect, and that would fit with the place in the law firm waiting for
him. Except…going that route felt like a trap. It was the
obvious choice, which made it wrong as far as Skylar was concerned.
His instinct was to find a mom and pop store on Main Street and give
them a corporate polish. That still didn’t feel quite
right, but it felt closer to the mark than anything else he’d
come up with so far.

This project was his
last chance to showcase himself as the package of Skylar Stone. After
this, he’d be lost to the dull halls of law school, fighting
the urge to be turned into a drone. This was where he staked his
claim on his individuality, his artistry. To show he wasn’t
going to be just any corporate lawyer. He’d be Skylar
Stone.

Whoever that was.

Of course, the other
project he had to focus on this summer was his LSAT study. He was
slated to take the test in September and had a tutor he was supposed
to check in with regularly. As of yet he hadn’t been able to
get the practice score he’d need for Yale Law, which was more
than something of a problem.

He tried to find a
perfect project so he could send in the form, get that ball rolling,
and get back to his LSAT prep. But all he could do was stare at the
ruined mural and think about Xander Fairchild and his angry scowl and
how he’d refused to let Skylar pay for the painting.

He managed to get in a
good hour of studying, but when he glanced up and saw it was almost
two, he closed his book and picked up his phone. His father’s
secretary answered on the third ring.

“Good afternoon,
Skylar. How’s your studying going?”

“Very well, thank
you for asking, Ellen.” Skylar drummed his fingers on his desk,
smiling as he thought of the woman on the other end of the line. “How
are the girls?”

“They’re
doing fine, thank you for asking.”

“Are Chris and
Marie stressing about their finals?”

Ellen chuckled. “They
are, but they loved the survival package you sent them. You’re
ever the thoughtful one, Skylar.”

He smiled, feeling warm
and soothed under her praise, as he always did. “Well, you’re
the one who raised me.

“I should think
some of the credit goes to your nannies.”

“Yes, but you’re
their mother.”

She laughed again, the
rich, low envelope of sound that always made Skylar wish she’d
been his mother, and not simply the woman who had organized
most of his life. She hadn’t always been his father’s
executive assistant—in fact, for much of Skylar’s youth
she was a low-ranking secretary who got stuck managing the care of
the Stone child. Sometimes she hired nannies and babysitters.
Sometimes she did the work herself. When her own children were old
enough, though, she installed them in the positions of caring for
Skylar. Meanwhile, Ellen continued to climb her way up the ranks of
the office pool, until her patience, curried favors, and wit landed
her a job at the right hand of Leighton Stone himself.

Skylar loved Ellen. He
loved her family too—her children Sandy, Rosie, and Erin had
been his nannies, but so had her sisters Tiffany and Sarah. Ellen’s
youngest children, Chris and Marie, were Skylar’s age, and they
had been his playmates. He’d considered them sisters when he
was young, and he’d been upset when he couldn’t go home
with them or that they couldn’t stay longer to play with him.

In so many ways,
Ellen’s family had raised Skylar. Yet he was also aware they
were not his family, that he did not belong with them. Of course, he
was equally conscious of how little his actual family wanted anything
to do with him, and so Skylar kept trying to find ways to attract
their attention and show them he could in fact be a Stone after all.

Which was what he was
doing right now, in fact.

“Ellen,” he
began, “I wondered if you happened to know when might be a good
time to reach my father.” His cheeks heated. “I’ve…been
having trouble reaching him.” Again.

There was a beat,
slightly uncomfortable, before she said, “He’s not in at
the moment, unfortunately. But let me check his schedule and when
might be a good time to try again.”

Skylar pushed his smile
wider, so his disappointment didn’t telegraph through. “I
have some information for him he might find illuminating. Maybe…tell
him that.”

Ellen’s voice
took on a whip-like quality that said, Don’t you worry, hon,
shit is about to happen. “I’ll see to it your father
has some time in his schedule to make a phone call as soon as
possible. All right?”

“Of course,
sweetie. Take care of yourself. Good luck studying for that test.”

Skylar hung up and
stared out the window. Ellen’s voice rang in his ear, lifting
his spirit, but it faded all too quickly. He wondered how long it
would take his father to call.

Beside him on the desk,
his phone beeped. Glancing down, he saw a bubble preview
notification, and he couldn’t help it, he hoped it might be
from his father. But it was only Carolyn from Tau Alpha Kappa.

Could use your
company tonight.

Ah. Raising his
eyebrows, Skylar opened his phone and checked his calendar.
Technically he was free, outside of wanting to get his project turned
in. With a sigh, he decided to hear her out. I might be free. What
are you thinking?

My family’s
having a fundraiser for the new senate candidate, and I was hoping
you’d be my date.

Skylar’s heart
skipped a beat. Senate fundraiser. Oh, Carolyn knew how to
sway him. I can give you a few hours. Shall I pick you up at six?

Great. Thank you so
much. You’re the best, Sky.

Skylar turned his phone
over and tried to focus once more on his application. He got nowhere
fast, however, so he gave up and went downstairs.

Despite most of the
brothers having gone to the park to play Frisbee, the main living
room still hummed with activity. Many of the guys were getting ready
to move out for the summer, and some had already left for internships
and opportunities abroad. Skylar felt a pang thinking of how the
house would be empty soon, because he would miss the commotion when
his brothers were absent.

Thankfully, they
weren’t all leaving. Jeff Turner, better known as Unc,
was one of the Delta Eta Sigma members who was staying. Unc could be
an acquired taste, but Skylar didn’t mind him. Unc sat with
headphones on, curled up in a corner of the sofa, decked in his usual
well-worn sweats and sporting messy hair—the top section
bleached blond over his dark-brown undercut that matched his
close-cut beard.

He was nibbling
absently on the end of a highlighter while he stared intently at the
pages of his econ textbook, but when he saw Skylar, he grinned and
waved him over.

“Hey, you.”
Unc pulled the band to his Beats back with a lusty sigh and shut the
textbook. “I hate econ. Like, I hate econ.”

“You’re
nearly through it.” Skylar plunked down beside him. “Let
me know if you need to borrow my notes. I think they’re still
in my closet.”

“I will take
those notes, gladly.” Unc tipped his head back and shut his
eyes, sighing again, even more dramatically than the first time, but
he also opened one eye and focused it on Skylar. “So. Did
Donovan break it to you about the Delta Sig Executive Council yet?”

Skylar sat up straight.
“No, he didn’t. What happened?”

Unc sat up too,
grimacing. “We’re getting fined for the vandalism. The
council is pissed.”

Skylar had been afraid
of this. “We need a meeting. You or Donovan need to call one. I
wish you’d have said something to me sooner. We need to be out
kissing administrative and art department ass. Right now.”

“You need
to kiss their ass.”

Skylar considered
pointing out he was a risk management officer and that his
term was up in a matter of days, but despite his insistence he wasn’t
running for office his senior year, everyone assumed he was
president-elect. He was always in charge, even when he wasn’t.

Unc held up a hand. “I
know, I know. I should handle this. Hear me out, though.” He
leaned forward on his elbows, his silver hoop earring swaying gently.
“I seriously thought about going over and talking to the
Interfraternity Council and the whole deal. But you know how I get. I
thought about taking Donovan with me, in case I put people off.
Except.” He raised his eyebrows and gave Skylar a knowing look,
inviting him to finish the thought.

“I know, and I
don’t think you should. I’m not either. I’m going
to be on the Interfraternity Council, and that’s enough.”

Skylar’s heart
sank. “Jesus, if you don’t run, and I don’t
run—”

“Then someone
else will have to run.”

Skylar looked around
the room. “What kind of leadership will we have, then?”

“I don’t
know. But here’s the deal, Sky. Both of us have law school to
prep for. I’ve got more prep to do than you, since I’m
pretty much a fuckup. Someone else can fill the gap.”

No one else was going
to fill the gap, though. Not anyone who wasn’t going to fulfill
every stereotype Xander had just lobbed at Skylar. “You’re
not a fuckup.”

Unc snorted and waggled
his eyebrows. “Come on now. You know better than that.”
He put an arm around Skylar. “Stop worrying. Here’s what
I’ve cooked up. You go smooth things over with the IF, and
tonight I take us out. Anywhere you want to go. All the booze is on
me.”

Skylar pinched the
bridge of his nose. “You know I don’t drink.”

“You do,
sometimes. The way you’ve been grinding your nose against those
books, I figure you’re overdue.” He leaned in closer,
pitching his voice low. “I’ll get us dates too. For
decoration or function.”

Skylar untangled
himself from Unc and stood, pursing his lips against the warning
signs of a headache. “Forward me the email from the council.
I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll tell
Donovan. You just let me know when we’re going out—”

“I have to
study.” He remembered he’d agreed to meet Carolyn. “And
I have somewhere to go at six. But if you’re here when I get
back, I’ll have a beer with you.”

“How about when
you get back you have a beer with me and a couple of girls?”
When Skylar only arched an eyebrow, Unc threw up his hands. “Dude,
this is why you get those migraines.”

“This is why your
dad tells you to apply yourself.”

“I do apply
myself. Just not to the things he wants me to.” Unc splayed his
arms over the back of the couch and grinned at Skylar. “Thanks,
man. I owe you big. Don’t you worry. I’ll make sure I pay
you back.”

Skylar was, to be
honest, more worried about the payback than the favor.

He didn’t have
time to dwell on that, however, so he focused instead on hunting down
the phone number of the president of the Delta Sig Executive Council
and apologizing, promising he’d take care of this right away
and report back as soon as he had news. He sent out an email to the
chapter loop. Then he took a shower, shaved, put on his suit and tie,
and began the trek to the student union.

He didn’t have an
appointment, but he understood the Director of Fraternity and
Sorority Life well enough to know how to handle her. Though it wasn’t
even remotely on his way, he stopped by the Java House and picked up
a blueberries-and-cream latte and the biggest chocolate muffin in the
display. He stopped at a flower cart and picked up a bouquet. Once he
wound his way down the hill to the student union, he stopped in the
men’s room to tidy his hair, and apply his secret weapon: a
spritz of L’Homme Libre cologne.

When he breezed into
Leslie’s office, she was on the phone, but she brightened and
waved him over, making a silent fuss of oh, you shouldn’t
have as she accepted the muffin, coffee, and flowers without
missing a beat of her conversation. Shortly she ended the call, but
before she could speak, Skylar held up his hands. “I’m
not going to bother you—I’ll send an email to make an
appointment, but I couldn’t wait that long to apologize for the
headache we’re giving you, especially this close to
commencement.”

She all but melted.
“Oh, Skylar—don’t worry for a minute about it.
Here, sit down—I’ve got some time. Let’s discuss
everything now.”

Since he’d known
this was exactly what she’d say, Skylar sat and dove headlong
into his fraternity’s fracas. “Let me make it simple.
We’re obviously expelling the members.” He hadn’t
cleared that with the board, but if they were going to turf
everything to him like this, they could live with his fiat. “We’ll
pay for whatever damages need paying for. My concern is the
reputation of Delta Eta Sigma and the Greek community. As much as
you’re comfortable with, I want us involved personally in
cleanup, and I’d like to do something for the art department if
we can.” He recalled his conversation with Xander Fairchild. “I
understand there’s not much we can do to save the mural, and it
might not be our place to do any painting or cleaning. But we’re
largely business majors, and we all have arms and legs. We can help
them administratively. In any capacity.”

Leslie looked
thoughtful as she sipped her coffee. “That’s good. Really
good. It’s true, the liberal arts aren’t as represented
overall in fraternity and sorority life, where most of you major in
business.”

Skylar nodded,
processing this as quickly as he could through his knowledge of
Benten history and its current demographics. “Which is such a
tragedy, if you think of it. Since the college was founded primarily
as a haven for artists, it’s a shame to see us so divided.”

“You know, you’re
right. This effort could be bridge-building. I’ll call the
department head and ask what they need.”

The idea formed in the
air between them, so crystalline and perfect Skylar wished he could
close his eyes and breathe it in for a few moments. “Tell me
what you think of this, Leslie. I’m working on my proposal for
my senior project right now. I’ve been unable to land on
anything I like, and I think it’s because I was waiting for
this opportunity. What if my senior project was to help the art
department? They have exhibits and such. They could use public
relations or marketing or all kinds of things that fall into the
purview of my project. What if that was part of our offer?”

Leslie beamed like a
sun. “That is brilliant. Only you would think of such a
thing, Sky. And nobody could do anything quite as amazing as you
would. I’m calling over there right now. In fact, I’ll
go over.”

“Perfect. I’ll
walk you, as it’s on my way. Unless you’d like me to come
along? Do you think that would be appropriate?”

“I think it’s
the best idea I’ve heard all day. Let’s go.” Leslie
rose, then stopped and winked. “But let me put these beautiful
flowers in some water first.”

“Absolutely,”
Skylar replied, winking back.

XANDER
CUT HIS hand on the way into the art building, which felt like
an ominous sign.

He was trying to duck
around a group of freshmen he knew were going to ask him for advice
on their projects, and when he misjudged the width of a doorway, he
reached out to brace himself against a piece of metal sculpture and
earned himself a gash along his palm. It wasn’t deep, and
thankfully it wasn’t on his left hand, but it required him to
stop at the office and get a bandage and a lecture from the secretary
about tetanus shots, and in the end he got jumped by the freshmen
anyway. He stood in the corner of the office, cradling his throbbing
hand, explaining the best way to arrange still-life composition and
lighting, wondering the whole time why they wanted to talk to him
when all he was doing was telegraphing how much he didn’t want
to engage with anyone.

They talked so damn
much he was late for his appointment with his advisor, so when he
arrived at Peterson’s door, he felt more awkward and unsettled
than usual.

“Come in,”
Dr. Peterson called when Xander knocked. Xander opened the door
enough to tentatively lean into the room, and Peterson gave Xander
the first smile he remembered seeing on his advisor’s face.
“Fairchild, what excellent timing.” He gestured to the
part of the room blocked by the door. “I have someone I want
you to meet.”

Xander pushed the door
open wide enough to step inside. He cast a glance in the direction
Peterson indicated and flinched in a brief shock of unease when he
recognized Skylar Stone. Suit, smile, and all.

“We’ve met
before, in fact.” Skylar strode forward, smile widening, and
held out his hand. “Good to see you again, Xander.”

Xander extended his
hand toward Skylar, realized this hand had a big goobery bandage on
it, and withdrew it. He tried to extend his left hand instead, but
that made his backpack slide down his arm, so in the end he tucked
both hands against his body and glared at Skylar before glancing
dubiously at his advisor. “What’s going on?”

“What’s
going on is I was about to return your BFA exhibit paperwork to have
you redo your marketing plan, but before I could do that, this
charming young man arrived.” Peterson clapped a hand on
Skylar’s shoulder. “His fraternity is making the art
department part of their service work this coming year, but he
is making us his senior project. He’s helping any art student
needing assistance with promotion for their work, but he needs one
student to serve as a centerpiece. The department looked over all the
BFA exhibit applications, and we’ve decided that student is
you.”

Xander took a step
backward. “What? No. No.”

Peterson’s smile
faded to the glower he usually reserved for Xander. “Don’t
be an idiot. You need his help. Your proposal was a disaster.”

Skylar’s megawatt
smile mellowed to comforting. “I promise I’m
advisory only. I won’t get in the way of your work. I’ll
simply help you draft a marketing plan.”